The Summoner's Prologue
The prologe of the Somnours Tale.
This Somnour in his stiropes hye stood;
Up-on this Frere his herte was so wood,
That lyk an aspen leef he quook for yre.
‘Lordinges,’ quod he, ‘but o thing I desyre;
I yow biseke that, of your curteisye,
Sin ye han herd this false Frere lye,
As suffereth me I may my tale telle!
This Frere bosteth that he knoweth helle,
And god it woot, that it is litel wonder;
Freres and feendes been but lyte a-sonder.
For pardee, ye han ofte tyme herd telle,
How that a frere ravisshed was to helle
In spirit ones by a visioun;
And as an angel ladde him up and doun,
To shewen him the peynes that ther were,
In al the place saugh he nat a frere;
Of other folk he saugh y-nowe in wo.
Un-to this angel spak the frere tho:
“Now, sir,” quod he, “han freres swich a grace
That noon of hem shal come to this place?”
“Yis,” quod this angel, “many a millioun!”
And un-to Sathanas he ladde him doun.
“And now hath Sathanas,” seith he, “a tayl
Brodder than of a carrik is the sayl.
Hold up thy tayl, thou Sathanas!” quod he,
“Shewe forth thyn ers, and lat the frere see
Wher is the nest of freres in this place!”
And, er that half a furlong-wey of space,
Right so as bees out swarmen from an hyve,
Out of the develes ers ther gonne dryve
Twenty thousand freres in a route,
And thurgh-out helle swarmeden aboute;
And comen agayn, as faste as they may gon,
And in his ers they crepten everichon.
He clapte his tayl agayn, and lay ful stille.
This frere, whan he loked hadde his fille
Upon the torments of this sory place,
His spirit god restored of his grace
Un-to his body agayn, and he awook;
But natheles, for fere yet he quook,
So was the develes ers ay in his minde,
That is his heritage of verray kinde.
God save yow alle, save this cursed Frere;
My prologe wol I ende in this manere.’
Here endeth the Prologe of the Somnours Tale.
The prologue of the Summoner’s Tale.
This Summoner in his stirrups high stood;
Upon this Friar his heart was so wood,
That like an aspen leaf he quook for ire.
“Lordings,” quoth he, “but one thing I desire;
I you beseech that, of your courtesy,
Since ye have heard this false Friar lie,
As suffereth me I may my tale tell!
This Friar boasteth that he knoweth hell,
And god it wot, that it is little wonder;
Friars and fiends be but lite a-sunder.
For pardee, ye have oft time heard tell,
How that a friar ravished was to hell
In spirit once by a vision;
And as an angel led him up and down,
To showen him the pains that there were,
In all the place saw he not a friar;
Of other folk he saw enough in woe.
Unto this angel spake the friar tho:
‘Now, sir,’ quoth he, ‘have friars such a grace
That none of ’em shall come to this place?’
‘Yes,’ quoth this angel, ‘many a million!’
And unto Sathanas he led him down.
‘And now hath Sathanas,’ saith he, ‘a tail
Broader than of a carrick is the sail.
Hold up thy tail, thou Sathanas!’ quoth he,
‘Show forth thine arse, and let the friar see
Where is the nest of friars in this place!’
And, ere that half a furlong way of space,
Right so as bees out swarmen from a hive,
Out of the devil’s arse there ’gan drive
Twenty thousand friars in a rout,
And throughout hell swarmeden about;
And comen again, as fast as they may gon,
And in his arse they crepten everich one.
He clapped his tail again, and lay full still.
This friar, when he looked had his fill
Upon the torments of this sorry place,
His spirit god restored of his grace
Unto his body again, and he awoke;
But natheless, for fear yet he quook,
So was the devil’s arse aye in his mind,
That is his heritage of very kind.
God save you all, save this cursed Friar;
My prologue will I end in this manner.”
Here endeth the Prologue of the Summoner’s Tale.
